


Watch Over Me

by Laundress



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Dark, Gen, Injury, multiple character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27391231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laundress/pseuds/Laundress
Summary: "Well well well, one of you survived," the Hood says, sounding amused.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 18





	Watch Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> I got to wondering what it would take to ever make Scott work with the Hood. This turned up.
> 
> I'm told this story is brutal, so be warned, I guess?

The surf churns against the shore, warm water gently lifting and lowering his buoyed body with each rolling wave. The air smells of salt. Scott opens his eyes and looks up at the sky. It’s just after dawn and the sky is a mix of pinks and blues, clear and cloud free apart from a tendril of smoke, a finger smudge of black across the sky. If he concentrates he can smell burning.

Another wave rolls in, the water splashing against his jaw line and making his skin sting. The next wave splashes his face and he jerks upright, coughing. That’s when his body comes fully and abruptly back online, pain rolling over him in suffocating black waves. His vision fuzzes at the edges and he ends sprawled in the surf, one hand keeping him above the water. His ears are ringing, he can smell smoke and everything hurts. 

_Breathe, Scott_ , he tells himself. He takes a long slow breath in and out, and then another, forcing the pain to recede. A quick mental assessment catalogues his injuries: ribs possibly broken, multiple abrasions, left arm dislocated, possible concussion judging by the nausea twisting his gut. 

The beach is unfamiliar, the formation of rocky outcrop and palm trees not anything he knows. His memory starts to come back in dribs and drabs. There had been a rescue call, an industrial disaster requiring all of the Thunderbirds to attend. When they’d arrived at the site it had been a burnt out abandoned husk, not a single person in sight. Scott rubs at the ache in his head as he tries to remember. What then? They’d packed up, headed back to the island. 

Missiles. There had been missiles locked on One.

His brothers broadcasting their maydays. 

No. 

_No._

His wrist communicator is waterlogged, but Brains designed them to be tough. He pushes the button.

“Calling International Rescue." No response comes. He tries again. "John? Are you receiving me? Brains? Virgil? _Anyone_?"

Still there's no response.

Okay Tracy, don’t panic, he tells himself. Maybe they’re out of range. Maybe the water’s done more damage than it should have. He just has to stay calm.

He starts walking down the beach, ignoring the pain in his ribs and arms. Maybe his signal is being blocked, maybe if he gets to higher ground - Scott stumbles to a halt.

There’s a body in the surf dressed in blue. 

Despite the pain, Scott staggers the last few steps, fear choking him.

Dark hair, sightless, clouded hazel eyes.

Virgil.

Scott falls to his knees next to him and with shaking hands checks for a pulse he knows he won’t find. Virgil’s skin is cold to the touch, still in a way that Scott has seen before, all life gone. His fingers don’t find a pulse. 

He sits back on his heels, unable to look away. His hand reaches out automatically to push Virgil’s hair back from his forehead, soothing. A welcome numbness spreads through him.

With difficulty he pulls Virgil further up the beach from the surf. By the time they’re safely from the currents, Scott’s vision is fuzzing again with pain, his breath coming in painful laboured gasps. 

Virgil is eerily, horribly still.

Scott sits down beside him on the sand, curling towards his brother. He hits his communicator again.

“John? Gordon? Alan?”

Still only static responds to him.

“Anyone?”

The static continues to fuzz unbroken. Scott looks up at the sky. “If any of you are listening right now, then you should know that Virgil – “ he swallows and then continues, “Virgil’s dead,” he says. His voice is lost to the air.

Noone responds. He closes his eyes. In his mind he can hear again his brothers’ cries and he knows deep in his soul that there's noone left to respond. 

Unconsciousness is welcome. 

Sometime later the crunch of multiple sets of footsteps on the sand wakes him. 

Further down the beach a small passenger boat has landed. About ten men are milling around it, pulling it to shore and strolling the waterline, looking for something. Then Scott sees the group of three men walking towards him across the beach – the Hood flanked by two guards.

Scott stays where he is, gaze fixed out on the deceptively calm sea. The Hood comes to a stop in front of him. 

"Well well well, one of you survived," the Hood says, sounding amused. 

Black rage suffuses him and he snarls, up on his feet and reaching for the Hood’s throat purely on instinct. He gets flung back onto the sand, the impact jarring his arm and side like hot lead pouring through his bones. He bites back a scream, hunched over and clutching his ribs with his good arm.

"Why?" he manages to grind out. “Why did you do this?”

”Yes, it does seem like something I would do, doesn’t it?” the Hood says with malevolent fire. “On this occasion, I have to disappoint you. It wasn’t me who killed your friends and family.”

The noise that escapes Scott is somewhere between a laugh and a howl. “Bullshit,” he spits out between panted breaths.

"Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant. International Rescue is gone, Scott Tracy. Your brothers are dead, your friends perished. If you want revenge then come with me. Help me. Together we can seek vengeance for what we’ve each lost.”

His brothers are dead. His brothers are dead, and Scott has failed them all.

He let’s his head fall. It doesn’t matter now, what the Hood does to him. Nothing matters.

The Hood takes that as acceptance.

“Bring him and the body,” he snaps out the order and turns on his heel, walking away, leaving Scott kneeling and broken on the sand.

-*-*

None too gently, the Hood’s men load him and Virgil onto the launch. Stretched out on the deck, he refuses to move from Virgil’s side, steadfastly staying put when the guards try. In the end, the guards just shrug and leave him there.

Time skips after that, consciousness coming and going. 

When he comes to, his ribs are bandaged, his arm has been set and the world is fever bright. He’s in a clinically sterile white room, medics milling around them. The Hood stands alongside his bed, talking to a woman in a white coat. 

“The infection in his wounds is a severe one, it will require several weeks of antibiotics,” the cool clipped tones of the doctor says.

The Hood looks down at him with an unpleasant smile. "See that he has everything that he needs."

He has to get out of here. Any minute now, Scott is going to get up and walk out. Any minute now….

-*

John visits him first, standing over his infirmary bed and looking down at him. 

He raises a cool eyebrow at Scott.

“You think I’m a ghost,” his brother says.

Speechless, Scott shakes his head.

“Huh, Scott dumbstruck. The guys will never believe me,” John says with a smile that’s slightly sad. He perches on the edge of Scott’s bed, clearer now that the lights aren’t behind him. “I’m not a ghost, I’m a hallucination. You have an infection and a fever,” John informs him.

Scott has to swallow to wet his mouth before he can talk. “Did you come here just to tell me that?” he rasps out.

“Ah, there he is,” John says with a more sincere smile that flits away as quickly as it came. Sobering, he looks down at where his fingers are crumpling the sheet. “You’re really ill.”

He looks so real, like Scott could reach out across the space between them and ruffle John’s hair. He feels grief crease him once more.

“You’re dead,” he croaks, heat pricking at his eyes.

“Guess I win that competition, huh,” John says with a sad smile and a half-shrug. ”Listen to me, Scott. You have to keep fighting.” The lights are swimming above them, and Scott can feel himself going under again.

“Don’t give up,” he hears his brother say gently.

He’s alone when he wakes up again and the loss cuts through the haze. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears leak out of the corners.

-*

Gordon’s sat beside his bed, arms crossed behind his head and legs propped on the edge of Scott’s bed. It’s daylight now, the infirmary lit by bright sunshine. 

“Gordon?” Scott asks, or tries at least. It comes out as more of a frog noise.

Gordon quits gazing up at the ceiling and rocks forward on his chair, peering at Scott.

“Aaaand he’s back in the room,” Gordon announces. “How are you feeling, bro?”

“Like shit,” Scott gets out through his parched throat.

Gordon’s face softens with sympathy. “Yeah, a raging fever will do that.”

Something about the wording makes the realisation sink in, the memories click into place. He’s more prepared for the grief this time, though it knocks the wind from him.

“You’re a hallucination,” he says flatly.

Gordon gives him an odd look and sits back. “Yep, and I gotta say, I think I’m more handsome in real life.” A pause and then Gordon breaks into an enormous shit eating grin. “You know what they say: die young, leave a good looking corpse,” Gordon says, gesturing down at himself with a dramatic sweep of his hands.

Scott grits his teeth and shakes his head against the pillow. “Don’t –“

“Hey, I’m not really here. This is all your mind, bro,” Gordon says. “Not my fault that your sense of humour stinks.”

Despite himself, Scott huffs a laugh. 

“See, now you’re laughing at your own jokes and that’s just lame,” Gordon says with glee.

His younger brother studies him for a moment, blond head cocked to one side, his act dropping and his face serious in the business like way his brother is occasionally capable of, so like their Dad in those moments that it’s eerie. It’s only for a moment and then Gordon’s smirking slightly again.

“John’s right, you’ve got to keep fighting this. Don’t let this shithead win,” Gordon says.

“Which shithead?” Scott mumbles, his eyes falling closed. He’s getting tired again.

“The Hood, the bad guy who took us down, the shitheads of the world in general,” Gordon says. 

“Mmm,” Scott says and hears Gordon chuckle.

“Go to sleep, Scott,” his little brother says.

“’k off, Gordon,” Scott mumbles and then he’s under once more.

-*

He almost screws his eyes shut again when he sees Virgil standing at the end of his bed examining the medical chart from a distance. This time he knows his brother is a hallucination straight off and it’s too much, seeing Virgil whole and breathing and _not real_. He can still feel the dead weight of Virgil in his arms, the cold skin under his fingers as he’d fumbled for a pulse.

He’s breathing a little unsteadily and the heart monitor starts beeping faster. Virgil’s unclouded hazel eyes flick up to meet Scott’s, widening slightly when Virgil sees that he’s awake.

“Hey,” Virgil says, abandoning the chart and taking the same seat as Gordon. He glances at the monitor, still beeping rapidly along with the thud of Scott’s pulse, and reaches out, laying his hand alongside Scott’s on the sheets. 

“Hey, Scott, calm down. It’s okay.”

Scott chokes because it is so very fundamentally _not okay_. He throws a hand up, covering his face. To his embarrassment, he feels tears escaping, rolling down the sides of his face.

“Woah, hey. It’s okay, Scott, it’s okay,” Virgil says gently, repeating it over and over as Scott shakes.

After a while it subsides and he swallows thickly, dropping his hand away. “It’s really not okay, Virg,” Scott manages to say.

A quirk of his brother’s lips. “I know.”

Scott just breathes for a few moments, trying to regain control. 

“So am I Scrooge here? You’re my third visitation.”

“You think I’m the ghost of Christmas future?” Virgil asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I hope not. That part was always scary.”

Virgil snorts and sits back in the chair. “Now I know you’re not well. There’s no way you’d admit that normally.”

“The machines and bandages didn’t give it away?”

“Usually you’re protesting you’re fine while we drag you kicking and screaming to the infirmary,” Virgil says dryly.

Scott’s humour drops away and he stares up at the ceiling. “I’m not fine, Virgil.”

Virgil sighs. ”Actually that’s not true. You’re getting better. The antibiotics are working, you’re beating this,” Virgil says.

It’s not what Scott had meant but he lets it go. Besides, he can tell Virgil’s right: his thoughts are slightly clearer, it’s easier to concentrate. But - “I’m still hallucinating.”

“Your temperature’s still high and they’re pumping you full of some pretty powerful drugs,” Virgil explains. He rolls his shoulders with a sigh. “Listen Scott, soon you’re going to be well enough that they’ll take you off the drugs and the hallucinations will stop,” Virgil says regretfully.

It takes a second for the implications to sink in and then Scott swallows, panic rising in him. He’d forgotten, it had seemed so real that for whole minutes that he’d forgotten –

Scott shakes his head futilely. “No.”

“You can’t stay stoned for the rest of your life. What would Dad say?” Virgil says, a sad attempt at humour.

The rest of his life alone. He closes his eyes, feeling himself shake anew.

“Scott, open your eyes,” Virgil’s voice is firm and Scott obeys, needing to see his brother’s face again – alive, even if it is in his imagination. 

Virgil is frowning now, concerned. “Listen to me, Scott. No matter what happens, we’re always with you. All of us. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”

Scott swallows. “Don’t go. Stay,” he says.

“That’s not how this works,” Virgil says, mouth turned down unhappily.

“I know,” Scott says. Exhaustion is once more pulling him under. Scott fights it with everything he has. “Please – “

“I’m here, Scott, I’m here.”

But when he wakes Virgil is gone.

-*

Alan’s fidgeting in the chair next to the bed, one leg bouncing up and down. He’d thought seeing Virgil would hurt the worst, the memory of waking up on the seashore still too fresh. But seeing Alan alert and eager and so young and knowing that all of that potential life had been snuffed out – Scott closes his eyes briefly, trying to shake the images trying to crowd into his mind.

“Oh hey, you’re awake,” Alan says, sitting forward eagerly. 

“Hey squirt,” Scott says around the lump that’s lodged itself in his throat.

“Virgil says you’re getting better,” Alan says, and Scott has to marvel at the fact that his hallucinations have apparently been talking to each other. He almost snorts at the ridiculousness of it. “That’s good right?” Alan continues, looking at Scott for confirmation.

“Yeah, squirt, it is,” Scott says, heart in his throat. 

Alan smiles, pleased as always to have Scott’s acknowledgement, though it tails off, his smile falling away. He rubs his arm. “Are you seriously working with the Hood?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. For now,” Scott says. 

“That seems – really dumb.”

Scott laughs a little. “Yeah it does,” he says and Alan lights up, smiling back at him. 

“What are you going to do when you’re better?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Scott says.

“Are you going after the bad guys?” Alan asks, glancing up at him almost nervously, like he’s scared of the answer.

Suddenly dry mouthed, Scott shakes his head. “I -“

Alan hurries on. “Because I don’t think it would help, you know, you, in the long run.” Before Scott can come up with an answer to that, Alan glances behind him, almost as if he’d heard someone call him, then he whips his head back round.

“Awww man, I have to go,” Alan says, his face falling. Already he looks less tangible, more like an impression of someone being in the room than an image. He’s fading fast, everything in the room blurring along with his little brother and Scott tries to focus, panicked.

“Hey, it’s okay,Scott,” Alan says and it’s so wrong, his youngest brother being the one to comfort him, that Scott shakes his head automatically. “Hey, Scott – “ Alan starts to say, more a memory of sound than something he hears.

“Yeah?” he asks but it’s too late, he’s fully awake now, the haze gone, vanishing like a dream and taking his brothers with it. Except they had never really been here. They were all gone. John, Virgil, Gordon, Alan – all lost to space or to the sea, each of them alone at the very end. 

The medic leaning over him is a stranger. She glances down briefly but then turns back to his drip, all business again, uninterested in the man lying below her.

Scott stares up at the ceiling.

-*

When he’s able to sit up again, The Hood lets him have access to a computer. Why becomes obvious soon enough, the news channels are full of headlines about the disappearance of International Rescue, the mysterious death of Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, the explosion in the Pacific that only affected a small chain of islands.

The loss of all his family and friends right there, hidden in a wash of sensationalist headlines.

When the information starts to repeat itself, Scott turns the tablet off.

The medical facilities at the Hood’s base are basic, so Scott takes his physio in hand himself. He starts off gently, he’s lost a lot of muscle strength over the last few weeks and his ribs and arm are still healing. Once or twice the Hood appears in the infirmary, watching briefly before nodding his approval and walking away.

Scott grits his teeth and pushes himself harder.

Other than fleeting visits, his host keeps his distance. Scott’s life is populated by a mini army of medics, none of them interested in talking to him or acknowledging him as a human being. The isolation suits him perfectly. He wants nothing to do with anyone. The only thing he knows is the cold hardness in his chest that’s been there since he woke up, growing with each passing day.

One week in, the Hood stops by, standing with his arms folded in the doorway of Scott’s room.

"My doctors tell me your recovery is almost complete,” the Hood says. His brow furrows when Scott doesn’t answer. "Don't rush to thank me, Tracy. I could have left you to die."

"Why didn't you?" Scott asks, feeling a stirring of faint curiosity. 

"I told you, because I want _revenge_. My plans have been ruined. Those machines were supposed to be _mine_ ," the Hood snarls, his face convulsing with barely repressed madness. 

"That’s it? You want revenge because you wanted the Thunderbirds?" Scott asks. "What about Kayo? She was your family." 

A beat where something almost akin to sadness passes over the Hood's face, and then he waves a hand, dismissive. "My niece despised me," the Hood said. "A shame. She had great promise. She could have done great things."

"She was a good person. She would never have worked for you," Scott says vehemently.

"We'll never know now, will we?" The Hood says. He gestures over his shoulder and one of the henchman lurking in the background walks forward and throws a tablet onto the table in front of Scott. There's a picture of a man on it, someone Scott doesn't recognise.

"Who's this?"

"Why he's the man who killed your family," the Hood drawls.

Scott takes a longer look. The man is non-descript in almost every way. Average features, average caucausian colouring, no great evil present on his face. "Why should I believe you?"

"Oh I will give you evidence, Tracy. All the evidence you will need to see for yourself. Before I do, I need your answer," the Hood says, stepping forward, his hand raised in the air and closing into a clawed fist. “ _Will you help me_?” he hisses.

His family and friends would be clamouring at him to say no, it’s a bad idea. Before – Scott would have said no, firm with the certainty that he was making the right choice. But all Scott can feel is a cold rage. 

Maybe something in him had died on that beach after all.

Scott looks up, jaw set and eyes like flint. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

The Hood laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a beta, so all mistakes are my own. Please feel free to point out if I've made any error.
> 
> As always, concrit welcome.


End file.
